Carmensita
by risokura
Summary: And for the first time in nearly five years, Roxas did not turn his head to the sky to beseech his Heavenly Father for deliverance from this hell. AxelRoxas AU.
1. ay tu primo colorado

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Kingdom Hearts

**A/N: **Named after the song by Devendra Banhart.

This story isn't really meant to follow any successive sort of chapter story line. It _will _have an ending, but each chapter is a bit of a stand alone in terms of content. You'll see as it progresses further.

_-x-_

_Carmensita_  
_ay tu primo colorado_

_-x-  
_

Everything came apart on that crisp October morning.

The air was clear, refreshed from the rain from the night before. The sky, a brilliant shade of cornflower blue. And contrary to the cliché that was his life, the sun was beaming that day. All of its spindly rays seemed to find him, wrapping him up in an unwarranted embrace. It was an ethereal spotlight, one that he didn't have the energy to shun. His apathy wasn't a defense mechanism; he was too mindless a creature to even adhere to that form of protection. He just let himself be, just let himself exist in the moment.

It would be over soon enough, he told himself. All these people that surrounded him would disappear as soon as they'd come. Off to enjoy their false little merry lives in their cheery little suburban homes. All the care and concern that flooded into his life in the past few weeks would disperse. Like grim being wiped from the surface of an old relic once lost to the twisted hands of time. He'd be left alone to pick up the discarded pieces of his past once again. For in his world, shared bloodlines meant little else besides the obligatory and heavily mundane phone calls on major holidays.

The priest's hand moved into the signs of the cross as he completed his final benediction. Their eyes met for a brief moment. He had known the man since he was a child. He had overseen his baptism, been there when for his First Communion and subsequently, Confirmation. He was always there to give him his Holy Communion every Sunday. It had been a personal request that he oversee the service. For in this moment, he was a trusted overseer in a sea of false faces.

"Grant this mercy, O Lord, we beseech Thee, to Thy servant departed, that she may not receive in punishment the requital of her deeds who in desire did keep Thy will, and as the true faith here united her to the company of the faithful, so may Thy mercy unite her above to the choirs of angels. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen." The priest took a deep breath, "May her soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace."

A loud wail rang through the crowd and he lowered his gaze as the casket was being lowered into the ground. Hushed murmurs shifted through the crowd as family members and friends tried to console one another. She was gone, she was gone and they wouldn't be able to bring her back. Oh, but at least she wasn't suffering anymore. They should be grateful that the Divine Maker had come and taken her back to where she was needed. At his side amongst all the others that faded away with the passage of time.

"Roxas."

The sun was still beating on his back, warm and heavy. He broke out of his reverie when someone gripped at his shoulder. A dull squeeze that was trying to bring him back to sanity.

"Yes, Ansem?"

The old priest closed the bible in his hands and glanced toward the casket that had faded from both their views.

"Ecclesiastes. Chapter seven, verse one. _A good name is better than precious ointment, and the day of death than the day of birth_." He began, "You have seen those gathered here today before you. Burn this image into your mind and do not let it go. The love that was held for her is gathered amongst you all. You are her remaining legacy, let this support guide you and hold you through the dark times that you may encounter."

Roxas scoffed, "…You know they aren't here for me."

Ansem shook his head, "It is not my place to dispel your personal thoughts, only to place comfort where there might be suffering." He let his hand drop from Roxas's shoulder and nodded to him, "I will always be near whenever you need me. I trust that I will see you this Sunday."

"As always." Roxas answered back, "…Thank you for doing this today. It's what she would have wanted."

"There is no thanks needed, Roxas." Ansem paused in thought, "Had I the opportunity to have children of my own, I would have wished for them to be as you and Naminé were."

"Hm." Roxas noted dully, "…I'm going to get going."

"You will not join the others?"

"No." Roxas replied, "…I'm not going to stand around and allow her to become a distant memory like everyone else seems intent on doing."

Ansem nodded, pressing a gentle hand to Roxas's back, "Understood. Please, allow me to see you off the premises."

-x-

The first week following her death, he tried to function with some semblance of normality. Yet, the apartment always seemed to smell like her perfume, a subtle hint of rose and early morning summer rain. Encompassed within the dregs of her fading scent were the last remnants of his sanity.

Lupus. The disease had claimed their mother on the eve of his first year of high school. And Naminé… she had started showing symptoms in childhood. Just as in the case of their mother, her kidneys had started to fail her two years ago. Roxas had always remained hopeful and vigilant in-between all the doctor's visits and nights in the hospital. All the exams and tests, the endless amounts of blood work. All that searching for a perfect match. And just when things were looking up and they had finally found one, the kidney transplant had been a massive failure.

Every Sunday. _Every damn _Sunday, he got on his knees, head bowed in concentration and his hands tightly clasped in pure desperation. He prayed, he _always _prayed there would be some way. A day where she wasn't hooked up to that damn dialysis machine. Where she wasn't being poked and prodded at with all those needles. Where the smile on her face wasn't there to simply assuage his worries. When she could stand on her own and didn't get tired from a simple three foot walk from her room to the nurses' station. Roxas had pleaded with the doctors. Was there no other way?

He tried to believe he wasn't alone in this battle, but who could he turn to when he felt like God had failed him? All those prayers. All those times he paid penance just so Naminé could get better. What was all that suffering for? What was he supposed to do _now_?

Roxas set to work with an empty heart and a vacant mind. Those people he had called his family had disappeared as soon as they had come. They had all come to bid their farewells to the more _respectable _member of the family. He knew when it came time to meet his maker; the turnout wouldn't be as genuine. If so, it would merely be to keep up with appearances.

But he was trying. He was trying so hard to repent. He had tried so hard to right the wrongs of his past. It wasn't enough, it would never be enough. All that sacrifice hadn't been enough to save Naminé. Why did he think it would allow him into the good graces of his family again? It had failed him. It had completely and utterly failed him and he had no idea what he would do now to rectify it.

He set about to live life on a day to day process. Leave his apartment, head downtown to work, interact with patrons, go get lunch, come back until it was time for closing, head home. That was how he functioned for a week. And every day the smell of Naminé's perfume grew a little bit stronger, and he faded a little faster.

-x-

On Sunday morning, his grief reached an insurmountable high.

And on the very morning, dense and heavy with the fog of unshed secrets, something would arise. A ghost from the past would come to him, singing a melodious hymn drunk on the sanguine and audacious folly of sin. A red, wraith like character that he had kept in the back of his mind. A hellion he had known unlike any other. The one thing that had caused him to divert from the path that he had been raised to walk upon. That one carnal sin that they would constantly break across his back. It was a heavy heel pressing his face into the mud, denying him the basic human need to breathe.

There he was, sitting on the steps of his apartment complex. Satan's incarnate had come back to play. His hair was hidden underneath a black, tattered beanie and an unlit clove was plugged into the side of his mouth. His thumb rolled back over his lighter and a fire came to life between the two of them. Roxas screwed his eyes shut. He wasn't seeing this; he wasn't going to bring himself back to those days. He couldn't, he wouldn't.

…_To open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan to God … that … that they may receive forgiveness of sins, __release from sin's slavery… and … and an __ inheritance among those who are sanctified and __purified by faith__ in me… Acts …Act—_

"You won't burst into flames if you look at me, you know?" He ran the lighter of the clove and inhaled,

"…I have nothing to say to the ghosts of my past." Roxas replied, "You shouldn't be here."

"I'm only in town for a little while." He removed the clove from his mouth and observed the burning embers. "Came by to pay my respects."

"That won't be necessary." Roxas responded, waltzing past the offending red head and began his ascent up the stairs.

"I know." He replied, flicking the clove, "I'm a week too late. Heard the news from Riku since I can't rely on you to tell me anything, can I? Found old Mr. Wise and he took me out to her grave. It's befitting, actually. The headstone was just as radiant and beautiful as she always was."

Roxas whipped around, staring down at the man before him, "Don't you dare talk about her like you knew what she went through. What we _both _went through."

"Not like I had much of a choice. You ran off before things even got that far, right, Roxas?" He inhaled the clove and stood up so he could turn around and face Roxas, "…Tch, even in the face of death, you haven't changed at all."

Roxas sighed, gripping the railing of the stairs with his right hand. He wanted to be done with this. He had enough shit on his mind and in his life to contend with. He didn't need anything else to bring his already failing existence into further disrepair, "What do you _want_, Axel?"

"Cup of coffee or tea and an hour of your time would be nice." Axel replied, inhaling the clove again, "I mean, I traveled all this way. It wouldn't hurt you to spare a little hospitality, would it? Aren't you Christians always going off about helping people and saving one another anyway?"

"Don't bring my _religion_ into this."

"Just merely stating facts, here." Axel replied, "So?"

Roxas regarded Axel for a minute before turning on his heel and walking up the remaining stairs that led to the door of his apartment. Axel took that as his silent confirmation and bounded up the stairs behind him. He stabbed out what remained of his clove and pocketed the cancer stick. Roxas wrinkled his nose in disgust as he turned the key to open his door.

"A half hour. That's all I'm going to give you. Say what you have to say and then leave." Roxas began as he pushed open the door to his apartment and let Axel enter in first.

Axel shrugged, "Huh. And here I was thinking I was pushing it with an hour. You exceeded my expectations, Roxas. I thought I'd barely get more than five minutes of your time out of you." He waltzed past Roxas and took a seat at the kitchen bar.

"So you came to see Naminé. I can admire that sentient in the very least, and thank you for that. But, what else, Axel? That can't be it. You always were one for ulterior motives." Roxas replied, as he set a kettle, heavy with water on the stove.

"Ah, New York's boring and I wanted to get out of my urban cesspool of decay and grit. Needed a change of scenery and wanted to return to my charming little small town roots for a little while." He drummed his fingers on the counter top, "I'm staying with Riku until next Monday. My folks are _conveniently _out of town for the time being. Figures."

"You're twenty six years old. You should be financially stable enough to find a place to stay at whilst you're visiting so you don't impose on others." Roxas snapped, turning on one of the stove eyes, "Then again, you never learned what responsibility was."

"You still have your sass, that's for sure." Axel muttered under his breath, "I went over to hang with the old gang earlier today."

"Your friends. Not mine." Roxas retorted.

"So you say." Axel replied, waving a hand dismissively. He watched as Roxas began pouring hot water into two respective mugs. Cornflower blue and sea foam green as he always did, "They were at the funeral, weren't they?"

"I invited them out of respect for my sister." Roxas replied.

"So you say, again." Axel eyed the mug that descended down in front of him and then looked at Roxas who was leaning against the bar, staring out the window, "…I came by to see how you were doing."

Roxas allowed himself to laugh bitterly, though there was no humor to his tone, "…_You_? Came to see _me?"_ He asked incredulously, bringing his mug up to his lips to hide the disgust on his face. He shook his head, "You're the last person I want to hear concern from, I hope you know."

"…Well…" Axel began, tracing an idle finger on the rim of his mug, "You let me in, didn't you?"

"So you could say what you have to and _leave me be_." Roxas replied, still not meeting Axel's eyes. The bitterness of his tea only did more to increase his acerbic mood, "Yet you seem intent on staying bowed at my heels, constantly trying to get my attention."

Axel laughed gingerly, "…God, all these years and you still haven't changed one bit." He glanced away from the blonde and slid the back of his hand over his forehead in minor exasperation, "Shit, Riku told me I was crazy for even attempting to try to talk to you. Can only blame myself that I'm a quarter shy of being a bleeding heart, huh?"

"I don't need your sympathy and I _surely _don't need your pity." Roxas replied, sipping at his tea again. It scalded his tongue. He glanced at the clock, "I'm cutting that time down to fifteen. Drink what's left of your tea and leave. I've had enough of you being here."

"Ooh, ouch. You're kicking me out again. Not like I had a choice in the matter the first time around, huh, Roxas?" Axel took a long sip of his tea, "Just tell me, how has the _Christian _life been working out for you, hm? Have you done enough to pray the gay away yet? I'm pretty sure they all think you're fixed now, don't they? You've got them wrapped around your little finger thinking you've suppressed those little urges of yours?"

"You just _had _to take it there." Roxas began, shaking his head. "You _always _fucking take it there, Axel."

Axel shook his head, swiping a hand across his face, pushing the hair that had escaped from under his beanie out of his eyes, "No. I came here with the intention of making sure you were okay. Contrary to how you view me, I don't see you as the spawn of the Satan, Roxas."

Roxas took a deep breath as he set his empty mug down on the counter. He turned cobalt eyes on Axel and prostrated himself as if to convey a silent message to the lackadaisical redhead sitting across the way from him. "I'm better now, Axel." He started, "I'm better than I've been for a long time. And I don't need your type of lifestyle anymore. I never should have gone down that road to begin with. But I was young and malleable back then and I'm not the same person that I used to be …"

"Or so you're content with telling yourself." Axel commented lazily. He took a sip of his tea and shrugged his shoulders, "Well, I've overstayed my welcome."

"Yes. You have."

Axel tipped the rest of his mug to his lips and stepped down off his chair. He fixed his beanie and then dug a heavy hand into his back pocket, "Well, this was a lovely visit. We'll have to do it again sometime, Roxas."

"Don't humor yourself." Roxas commented, setting his mug down into the sink and ran some water in it.

"Hm, I don't think I am." Axel retorted as he walked toward the front door with Roxas trailing behind him.

The two of them stayed poised at the door for a short minute. Roxas wordlessly opened the door and didn't meet the redhead's eyes. He stared out into the bitter fog of that October morning, fingers gripped tightly on the grooves of the door handle. He felt Axel's presence by his side; he knew he was staring at him.

In one quick second, he felt rough gloved hands brushing across his face and pulling him in Axel's direction. Teeth clicked harshly against his own and an all too familiar tongue pried his mouth open even further. Roxas brought his hands up to grip at Axel's wrists, trying to push the taller man off of him. Axel eventually drew back when Roxas shoved at his chest and slapped the taller man across his face.

"Get out of here. Get out of here _right now_." Roxas seethed, resisting the urge to spit until his mouth ran dry, "How _dare _you bring that filth back into my presence."

Axel laughed sardonically, tonguing the side of his mouth gingerly. He was bleeding. He shook his head and grinned despite it all, "Keep on praying, Roxas." Axel started as he reached into his back pocket to remove his half smoked clove and lit up once again. He turned around to begin his descent down the stairs in front of him, "Keep on praying until your voice grows weak as you desperately press your hands together for some form of salvation. Continue to pray to a God who never answers you no matter how loudly you scream at his backside to acknowledge you."

And then he was gone.

That sinful wraith had swept him up in its deceit, capturing him when he was most weary and distraught. The funny thing about grief is that it hits us when we least expect it to. We can carry on for weeks at a time after the deceased has passed without a second thought. We said our goodbyes at their burial, let our memories flow out and forge with their essence. We think to ourselves, we'll be okay. We can carry on without them.

But then we notice the little things. Minor things here and there. Things that we remember them doing, saying, their smell, their touch, their voice. And those memories prove to be too much and we find ourselves at a loss for what we should do with ourselves. We tell others that we're fine, that we can carry on with the burden alone. We don't need to let others know the full extent of our grief. We're supposed to be over that. Our loved ones who are no longer with us … they wouldn't want you carrying on like that, would they? So you put on a tough front and pretend that you are okay.

You pretend those thoughts don't exist. The ones that come and wrap around you at night. Coiling around you and suffocating you of your last breath. You hope to end up dead whenever you close your eyes. You don't know what to do with yourself anymore. What are you supposed to do with your life?

And then someone comes along. Someone who once represented everything you thought of the world. Every little fixture, every minute little detail. The one who sought out to bring you faraway nebula's, burning bright greens and reds. The cosmos, the stars, the moon and the sun. Swimming in a sea of minor trepidation, floating along with their gentle current. They remind you to breathe again, give you focus. Let you lean on their shoulder when the pain becomes too great. They cradle you in a sea of warmth and abate that suffering for just a little while. Push it into a compact ball and fling it around the sky into some unknown realm where it no longer exists.

…But then you begin to question yourself. And you grow up a little more … and you discover yourself a little more. And you begin to think that this person … this person … you shouldn't be with this person. You shouldn't be doing these types of things. No matter how many times they held your hand through the night, wrapped you up in their embrace and pressed your face into the curve of their neck as they lulled you to sleep. How quickly you were to turn on them when that rod was cracked against your fragile, supple back.

There shall be no whore of the daughters of Israel, nor a sodomite of the sons of Israel—Deuteronomy 23:17.

Thou shalt not lie with mankind, as with womankind: it is abomination—Leviticus 18:22.

If a man also lie with mankind, as he lieth with a woman, both of them have committed an abomination: they shall surely be put to death; their blood shall be upon them—Leviticus 20:13.

Don't you realize that those who do wrong will not inherit the Kingdom of God? Don't fool yourselves. Those who indulge in sexual sin, or who worship idols, or commit adultery, or are male prostitutes, or practice homosexuality, or are thieves, or greedy people, or drunkards, or are abusive, or cheat people-none of these will inherit the Kingdom of God. Some of you were once like that. But you were cleansed; you were made holy; you were made right with God by calling on the name of the Lord Jesus Christ and by the Spirit of our God—1 Corinthians 6:9-11**.**

For this reason God gave them up to vile passions. For even their women exchanged the natural use for what is against nature. Likewise also the men, leaving the natural use of the woman, burned in their lust for one another, men with men committing what is shameful, and receiving in themselves the penalty of their error which was due—Romans 1:26-27.

So, Roxas prayed.

Roxas prayed hard for five long years. He left his old life behind. He cut off all ties to the ones that used to bind him. Who would speak and whisper dubious things into his ears. Vainglorious things that they were. He returned to his small town and stayed on his weary knees as he prayed so hard for deliverance and repentance. To be delivered from this carnal thing that always ate at his core. Day to day he would pray. Pray for his sister, pray for her life. He wanted his sacrifice to be taken as penance, something that could right the wrongs of his past and guarantee the success of his future. But, it never came. It never fucking came and now she was gone.

And on that morning, watching the fading figure of that once warmth figure of red, Roxas was brought to his knees.

And for the first time in nearly five years, he did not turn his head to the sky to beseech his Heavenly Father for deliverance from this hell.


	2. con barba camburada

_Carmensita  
con barba camburada_

-x-

The first time a child hears their parents fight; they want to do all that they can to stop them from ripping each other to shreds.

They find themselves hiding in the corner of their childhood home, pressing a cherubic face full of tears to a tattered blanket, the scratchy material wrapping around their timid body. Small hands grasp at a younger sibling or stuffed companion to comfort them from the loneliness. Roxas was seven the first time it happened to him.

Bright summer on a Sunday morning. A chill wind was blowing that morning, carrying with it the scent of something evil. Something that would pervade his home and blanket the safety that it used to carry in an infinite darkness he would spend his whole life trying to escape.

Their father had been late coming home, spending all his time wrapped up with some pretty young thing in the bar down the street. He remembered he and Naminé had gone to sleep in their room, but ended up with their mother some time during the night.

Naminé had woken him up that night, tugging forcefully on his hand so that he would wake up. She was scared of the demons hiding in their closet, terrified of the monsters that would peak in-between the curtains. It wasn't enough to let her get into his bed; she kept telling him that she wanted to go to sleep with their mother. So he led her down the dark and narrow hallway, grasping her hand along the way as she buried her face into his backside and occasionally tripped on her too long nightgown. Their mother was quick to let the both of them get into the bed with her when she saw how upset Naminé was.

They awoke to the sound of their father stumbling into the house at around six in the morning.

Roxas didn't remember much else of that bright, Sunday morning. There were of course Naminé's tears mixed in with the screaming of his parents, his mother eventually ending up on the floor with his father looming over her as she screamed at Roxas to call 911. It was all a blur. Memories of his that he tried to keep pushed down so they wouldn't come pooling to the surface, having him vomit putrid bile to keep himself sane.

That was the first time Roxas missed church. Consequently, that was the first time where Roxas felt as if his faith was beginning to break. His father would become background noise as he left town one week later and his mother whisked him and Naminé off to live with their grandparents. They were strict, bare bones Christians who tolerated nothing but the absolute adherence to God's word and Roxas was quick to snap into line and obey their rules.

Over the course of seven years, his attendance in church became no more than a ruse. Seven years of waning faith, the stern face of his grandparents, his sick mother and his frailer sister. The outer shell of his being was the golden boy his family had always sought for. Perfect in mannerism, excelling in his academics and exemplary in his role in the church. But under the surface lurked something more, something else that threatened to break free. Something he was holding onto for the last minute, shoving it back into the closet, holding fast so that it couldn't escape his grasp.

It was white noise in the background, like the crackling sound of a blank channel on the television at night in a darkened room. Glowing against his backside and painting differing shades all across his walls. Every night, he pulled the sheets a little higher and the noise got a little louder. It was background noise coming to the forefront, and he would have to confront it sooner or later.

And it would happen on a Sunday, just like that of his past seven years ago.

It was spring; he had just turned fourteen that winter. He was going to the hospital with his grandparents and Naminé. They were coming to bring his mother flowers Naminé had picked herself... how proud she had been. Their mother had had another relapse. It was her kidneys again, they weren't working too well and the doctors were less optimistic than the last time.

But, Roxas wasn't worried. They'd braved through many storms with their mother. He had dealt with her sickness for all of his life; he thought she'd pull through again this time. He had prayed, prayed with all his might and he was so sure she would be saved. He had high hopes as he grasped Naminé's hand and they shuffled in through the automatic door of the hospital once again. But … again, all he could remember of that day were the sounds of Naminé's tears, the screaming and yelling of the doctors, the loud beeping of the hospital monitors. Two days later, his mother was blanketed in white, head to toe.

They buried her on Mother's Day.

A week later, he forgot what she looked like.

That night following her burial, he collapsed into the grass of his grandparents' backyard and titled his eyes to the sky. It was a place that no longer held answers for him, merely gave him an overwhelming feeling of shame and contempt. What had he prayed for? What had he sacrificed for? What good was any of that if God had allowed so much pain into his life? What was this all for?

He dare not question or mention these thoughts in front of his grandparents, lest he wanted to end up on the street. He bit his tongue and pretended to follow their guidance. Went to every Sunday morning mass and bowed his head to their hymns and prayers. Yet, with every amen that slipped from his mouth, he died inside a little more. His faith grew bitter and he became enamored with the idea of looking beyond all of what he was taught since his birth.

And then, on the eve of new academic opportunity, he found himself stepping across a threshold that would change his existence for the next four years. It was the sound of the muted television at his back, the white noise he had suppressed for so long. Without hesitation, he would gladly accept the outstretched hand of the red haired demon with translucent, malachite eyes.


End file.
